The King in Disguise

The laughter rang out, echoing through the marble halls of the Blackwell mansion. It was sharp, cruel, and full of superiority. There were crystal chandeliers above that lit up the golden dining table set for twenty, but only six people sat around it tonight. Ethan Cross sat at the end of the table, away from the centre where his wife, Vivienne Blackwell, lay like a queen on her throne. She hardly looked at him, and her manicured fingers tapped on the stem of her wine glass as if she were bored with him. Cassandra Blackwell, her mother, said with a tinkling laugh, "Really, Vivienne, why do you let him sit there?" He looks more like a servant than your husband. Nathaniel Blackwell, the head of the family, laughed next. His big frame took up most of the space at the head of the table. His voice was loud like a gavel hitting a guilty person. Nathaniel said, "He should be thankful." "Most men would kill for the little bits of privilege we've given him." He had a roof over his head, food on the table, and the Blackwell name next to his. What else could he want? Ethan's skin was burning, but he didn't say anything. He never did. For three years, he had to put up with these insults and constant reminders that he was just a "kept husband". Every word was like a knife, but he swallowed them whole and hid his pride where no one could see it. Vivienne's lips turned into a cold smile, and her hazel eyes sparkled with fun. "He doesn't care," she said slowly, as if she were speaking for him. "Do you, Ethan?" Finally, her eyes moved to him, teasing him to disagree with her. He looked her in the eye for a brief moment before looking down at his plate of untouched fillet mignon. He said softly, "No." He spoke in a steady voice, but the words tasted like ash. The table burst into another round of laughter that felt like chains around him. They couldn't see him. A shadow that followed Vivienne around, a decoration, something to make fun of when the wine flowed too freely. And yet, Ethan stayed. For love. For the woman he believed could show kindness. The meal took a long time. Nathaniel talked about future transactions, including backroom deals with senators, hostile takeovers, and political donations. Cassandra spread rumours about scandals in society. When Damian Pierce's most recent text message appeared on her phone, Vivienne burst out laughing. Ethan took note. He was always aware. He clenched his fists around the silver fork, then pushed them loose. Not in this place. Not right now. A waiter filled his glass, gave him a pitying look, and stepped back. The only recognition he ever got in this house was a slight nod of gratitude from Ethan. The smell of truffle oil and pricey wine filled the room, but beneath it was the decay of conceit. And in silence, Ethan took it all in: their cruelty, their conceit, their belief that he would always be beneath them. Because he did not defend himself, they believed him to be weak. However, weakness and restraint were not synonymous. The two were only confused by fools. Ethan stayed behind to stack dishes after the plates were cleared and the family moved into the drawing room for cigars and brandy. As she walked past him, Cassandra said sharply, "Leave it." "That is the purpose of the staff." She didn't stop him, though. She didn't. They found it amusing that he worked, as if it validated his inferiority. Ethan stared at his reflection in the gilt-edged mirror above the washbasin as he slowly cleaned his hands after finishing the last dish. His jawline was sharp but softened by fatigue, and dark hair fell across his brow. Grey, steady, and calculating, his eyes were the only thing that betrayed the truth he concealed. He was nothing to them. He was much more than they could have imagined, though, behind the mask. Later, he discovered Vivienne on the balcony, her phone pressed to her ear, a silk robe clinging to her body. She whispered, "Yes, tomorrow night," in a honeyed tone that had never been used with him. "He won't have any suspicions. Never does he. Ethan went cold. The words were cold and slicing, like ice sliding into him. Her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of him. With a raised eyebrow, she questioned, "Eavesdropping?" Ethan calmly answered, "I came to see if you needed anything." He covered up the tightness in his chest. It was always covered up. With a sly smile, Vivienne moved closer until her pricey, potent perfume enveloped him like smoke. "Ethan, you will never be able to provide me with what I need." No matter how much her parents insulted her at dinner, her words cut deeper. He stared at her, looking for the woman he had once loved, but all he saw was emptiness. As she vanished into the master suite, she brushed past him, her heels clicking on the marble floor. Behind her, the door slammed. With the city skyline stretching out in front of him like a kingdom of light and shadow, Ethan stayed on the balcony. Slowly, the rage inside him clawed for release as his chest rose and fell. He didn't allow it, though. Not just yet. Because his greatest weapon was patience. Ethan stood by the window of the guest room, where he usually slept, after hours had passed and the house had become quiet. He could see Vivienne's shadow moving behind their bedroom's curtains across the courtyard, her laughter resonating softly through the darkness. She wasn't by herself. With the truth at last indisputable, Ethan's fists clenched at his sides. He was being betrayed by the woman he loved. All of it—the years of sacrifice, the laughter, the humiliation—suddenly became clear. Ethan began to ponder what might happen if the mask were taken off for the first time. Not the mask of patience. Not the mask of humility. But the mask is hiding his true identity. The heir. The king. The man who would make the Blackwells bow down. With a slight smile tugging at his lips, Ethan turned away from the window. The game was just getting started.